Murtagh's Mistress
by Payprklip
Summary: One-shot (possibly a two-shot if people ask me for another chapter) The thoughts and experience of Murtagh's long-term mistress of one evening.


The door slammed. The sound of it echoed around the dim, stone chamber and jolted her out of sleep. Gods be damned, could that man never be quiet? The least he could do after keeping her up all night was to let her nap during the day. Then again, if he was back it wasn't so much day any more but evening – the low level light filtering lazily through the window was testament enough for that.

His footsteps echoed, getting louder as they stormed towards the bed chamber. She kept her eyes closed and hoped he wasn't in too much of a bad mood tonight. Not as much as last night, anyway. The door handle whirred quietly as he turned it (there being a surprising lack of creaky doors for a castle in this place), but the sound it made when he slammed it shut more than made up for that. She was lying on her side, facing away from him, and kept still, hoping he'd just sit down in one of the chairs and leave her be.

"Brisingr."

He spoke and flames roared in the fireplace. She could feel the heat of them almost immediately, and was glad of it. Since he so steadfastly refused to adorn his chambers with anything other than what was originally in them, the cold penetrated and sounds were sharp as they bounced off the walls. Even in the height of summer it was cold in his rooms.

"I know you're awake."

His voice seemed loud in the still. It was deep and sceptical, as always. She sighed internally, not really having expected him to believe her pretence but hoping he would take a hint and leave her be anyway. But that tone that he'd used left no room for doubt; he wanted her up.

"I'm sleepy…" Her voice was slow and lazy, belaying that fact that she'd only just woken. She stretched contentedly in the large bed and the layers of blankets (that he always kicked off at night, much to her distaste) shifted quietly with her. The feather pillows crackled beneath her head as she opened her eyes to stare at the canopy.

He didn't deign to reply. She gazed at the ornate embroidery above her, blinking a few times to clear her vision. The scene depicted a starry sky filled with yellows, blues and whites. She had liked it from the moment she had climbed into his bed. He was less convinced, she knew. She'd asked him once, when he was groggy from their bed-play and less likely to snap at her, but he'd only shrugged and pulled her closer to him under the sheets.

"Come here."

"But I'm cozy…"

"Now."

Sighing in defeat, she slipped from the bed, taking one of the blankets with her. Her bare feet hit the cold, stone floor, sending a shock through her. She quickly fumbled to her slippers and dressing gown, tying it tightly shut, before making her way over to him.

He was standing in front of the fire, looking down into the flames which cast long shadows on his handsome face. The shadow of stubble had formed on his cheeks and chin, showing how he hadn't bothered to shave that morning when he'd left. He could never be bothered to do anything for a while after using her. She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind and buried her face in the crack between his arm and ribcage. The top of her head was just taller than his armpit. He didn't move, but she knew he liked it when she did that so it didn't bother her. He rarely showed pleasure, but if he didn't like something she did, she sure as hell was made aware of it. Indifference was just a way of his.

"Come to bed," She purred in the voice they had taught her in the pleasure house.

They had taught her lots of things in the pleasure house. She'd been lucky (or so they said) to be taken on there. Only the rich and powerful visited _that_ pleasure house, and the prices were said to be extortionate (not that she ever saw any money). The madam was a middle aged woman called Rosmerta, who only took on the most beautiful girls - so she supposed it was an honour when her parents had managed to sell her. Rosmerta had decided that she would be trained as a mistress, rather than one of the whores, so whilst they had taught her many things, she had never been with a man until she had been bought by the king and given to the Red Rider. To have been handpicked by the king was a privilege too, she supposed, and proof that she was not only beautiful but intelligent - for the pleasure house had taught her that being a mistress was just as much being able to hold an intellectual conversation than pleasing in bed, and had given her all the lessons she needed in that too. She had been a gift, apparently, from the king to his new rider when the red dragon had first hatched for him. She had also been one of the few gifts that Murtagh had actually kept, not that that meant very much.

He remained silent, as usual. She used the tips of her fingers to trace patterns on his stomach through the thin, cotton shirt he wore for training. The lines of his abs were hard as a result of the hundreds of hours he had spent with the king, pushing his body to its limits. She was always thankful that she had ended up being given to him rather than some other lord who was old and fat and disgusting. At least she didn't have to fight the urge to be sick every time he wanted to use her.

"Don't." His voice was hard and she recognised the warning tone in it.

She stopped immediately. He was not one to be teased when he wasn't in the mood (as she had found out to her peril). Sometimes – rarely – his voice was softer when he told her not to do something, and hinted that he wanted to be teased, but that was not tonight.

He stepped out of her arms and she let him go without a fuss. He trudged over to the small pile of old books that sat on the table in the corner and picked the top one up. Those were the books that she was instructed to never, _ever_ read on pain of death. She assumed that they were full of dark secrets about magic and weapons and torture and other kinds of horrible things. She occasionally entertained herself by conjuring up the worst possible theories she could, but she never asked if she was right. She was a clever girl: she knew that if it seemed like she was snooping, she'd be carted off to the hangman's noose quicker than she could blink. She knew that she was nowhere near irreplaceable.

That was one of the worst things about being his mistress. The thin line she had to tread, and the constant fear that one day, she'd make a mistake. If she somehow managed to behave and entertain Murtagh well enough until the point at which he grew bored of her, she'd be able to leave the castle and buy her own little estate and live comfortably for the rest of her life, as most ex-mistresses did. Murtagh was so rich that she wouldn't even have to sell herself to a single other lord before she could retire. Pros and cons.

The fire grew brighter as he collapsed into one of the chairs and she assumed he had used his magic. She was secretly fascinated by his magic, but she could never pluck up the courage to ask him about it in case he thought she was snooping and told the king. One hand lifted from the book and beckoned her over with a twitch of the finger. She went to him quickly and sat in his lap, grateful for the close proximity to the fire, and nestled into him. He was watching her expectantly, so she put her chin on his shoulder and closed her eyes so that there would be no chance that she would see inside the book, resigning herself to a boring next few hours.

* * *

><p>The maids came with dinner at four hours to midnight, as usual. Murtagh took his food in his quarters unless ordered to dine with the king, and she never complained because she liked the peace and quiet. When they knocked on the door, he finally shut the book with a snap and dropped it onto the small table next to him.<p>

He sighed and stretched before rubbing his eyes. She knew that the reading was hard, even for him, and was not jealous of the content that he had to teach himself about. She assumed that the king had ordered him to read the books, and every few weeks there would be a fresh pile on the table. Once, Murtagh hadn't finished reading the set he was given before being issued more, and the king had punished him horribly. She'd seen the bruises and cuts when they went to bed but had had enough tact not to ask about them.

She could hear the maids setting the table in the room outside, but they wouldn't finish for a few minutes, so there was no point in going in. Murtagh didn't like seeing the maids anyway, and preferred to wait until they'd gone. They annoyed him, he'd told her once, because they chattered and giggled and fussed. She agreed, and kept the comment about him being annoyed by most everything to herself.

His arms settled around her waist and she took it as her cue to kiss her way up his neck and down his jaw. He raised his head to meet her lips early, and kissed her tiredly, but firmly. She slid her hands up his arms and into his hair, just the way she'd been taught, and shifted in his lap to gain easier access. When his hands tightened, she had a feeling that they wouldn't be eating for a while.

* * *

><p>He used her twice more that night. Once after dinner (which had been a highly sexualised affair, considering that he'd fucked her in the armchair right before eating), and once after he woke from one of his nightmares. He never cried out when he woke in the night, but she could tell when he was having a nightmare because he tossed and turned and ground his teeth.<p>

She had enjoyed dinner, because they had ignored the table and chairs and taken their plates to the rug by the fire, reclined on the cushions and flirted. The maids had set out mango for desert, which was her favourite. Murtagh had fed her pieces by hand and she'd licked the juices from his fingers. She had taken genuine pleasure from their union after dinner, which didn't happen often. He never really cared about her pleasure, because in his eyes, she was a slave, not a lover. He usually just took what he wanted and was not gentle about it. But she suspected that their flirting had softened him up a little – not to mention their earlier romp. He had even carried her to bed afterwards.

When he woke her in the night with his fervoured kisses, however, it was a different story. He was always unnecessarily rough with her after a nightmare (she secretly assumed this was because he felt as though they emasculated him and he wanted to show her that he was still a man), and he always left her with bruises. Still, she feigned pleasure (even though she knew he knew it was faked) and cuddled him afterwards.

Murtagh used her a lot. When she was in the pleasure house, she had been told that most men were only able to copulate once or twice per day. But she assumed that Murtagh's frustration, anger and (secretly) sadness, had to be exerted in some way or another. It was rare that she ever took real pleasure from him, and even rarer that she would come, so she faked her sighs and moans for his ego. She knew that he was aware of this, but he preferred her to fake rather than cry out in pain, so he left her to it. He didn't really care whether she enjoyed it or not.

* * *

><p><strong>Please let me know if you want this story to be a two-shot rather than a one-shot. I hope you enjoyed it!<strong>


End file.
